


the kelvin knot

by HazelHare



Series: ineffable tie collection [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, and how do i have them?, and it isn't quite what they expected, they finally have the picnic, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelHare/pseuds/HazelHare
Summary: Aziraphale gave his emotions the briefest glance, balked at what he saw, and then hurriedly swept them into a quiet nook in his mind, closed the door behind them and drew the bolt across just to be safe.orThe second time Crowley ties Aziraphale's tie.





	the kelvin knot

He must wear the tie for the picnic tomorrow, he decided. It was going to be an occasion.

It was, not to put too fine a point on it, and without wishing to draw any more attention to his emotions than he ever had in the past 6,000 years, a special occasion.

Aziraphale gave his emotions the briefest glance, balked at what he saw, and then hurriedly swept them into a quiet nook in his mind, closed the door behind them and drew the bolt across just to be safe. 

His eyes widened.

No, he thought. No more watchers, no more checks and balances, no more ledgers. He swallowed, anxiously. The thought of relying on his own guidance for morality was far too big a feeling to cope with this afternoon, let alone with anything else. 

Choosing between the two terrifying doors in his mind: one marked ‘Crowley’ and the door marked ‘I might have to create my own version of morality’, he plumped firmly for the former. With another light gulp, he tentatively reached out and drew the bolt back across. 

There. 

That was enough for one day. 

~

Aziraphale stood just inside the front door of his bookshop fretting desperately, watching the approaching black clouds washing away the promise of his five-decades-in-the-making picnic. He glanced vaguely upwards, bit his lip as though thinking better of it, and resumed his restless pacing, back and forth across the shop floor. 

Crowley was bound to be here in a minute, or perhaps he would cancel due to the poor weather, or worse he would simply think that Aziraphale had miracled up this downpour as a means of escape from the picnic and the - promise he had been anxiously darting away from for the past few centuries. 

Aziraphale unconsciously flexed his fingers as he walked, running these various tortures over in his mind. 

The door banged open. Crowley appeared, grinning wildly, yellow eyes glowing in the low light of the storm. He shook the rain from his coat, all within a miraculously bookless radius, and brandished a wicker basket in one hand and a wine bottle in the other.

He tilted his head and proffered a smile. 

“Picnic, angel?”

“In here?” protested Aziraphale. He didn’t have a strict objection to it, but after many centuries, disagreeing with Crowley was a hard habit to break. 

Crowley knew this dance too, and was spurred on, secure in the knowledge that he would win. 

“We are warm and dry. I have food. You-“ he gestured at a large sofa “-get that blanket, and I’ll find cushions.”

Aziraphale reached for the nearest sofa and his fingertips brushed a soft, generous blanket which he was almost certain had not been there a moment earlier. He laid it gently in a space that the nearby books and bookshelves had obediently made for them. He buried a smile with a touch of delight, and then- panicked.

He felt oddly light-headed, unable to move from the spot. No, he had wanted it to be perfect!

Crowley set down the basket and wine, making two flute glasses appear with only a touch more finesse than a children’s magician. He was kneeling appreciatively on the soft rug and had found pillows to make things more comfortable, when he noticed something distinctly missing from the scene. 

He glanced up at Aziraphale and frowned. 

“Come on,” he gestured.

Aziraphale was frozen to the spot, mouth twitching unhappily.

Crowley blinked. 

“Food, wine, blanket, picnic?” he tried, attempting an encouraging smile. His expression became unreadable. “Too much?” 

Aziraphale gestured helplessly to his desk, and the desk chair, on the back of which was a familiar tartan tie.

Crowley crumpled forward, and then his head fell back in laughter. 

“A tie? _Really_ , angel? Fifty years, and you had me worrying over a tie?“

“It’s important!” Aziraphale protested, but he was reassured by the laughter. “Please.” 

Crowley sighed theatrically, got to his feet and gently sauntered to the desk with only a hint of temptation. 

He picked up the tie between thumb and forefinger, gently enjoying the cool silk as he wrapped it with one hand around the other, eyes fixed on Aziraphale as he closed the distance between them.

He tilted his head to one side, taking care to brush the silk against his own neck as Aziraphale watched him secure the knot and loosen it again. 

Aziraphale tilted his head up a fraction in permission, then briefly closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, as Crowley’s hands brushed the side of his neck. He could feel how close they were standing, how near his limbs were, how familiar and oddly unfamiliar in this moment. 

An absence of contact awoke him from his reverie and he cautiously opened his eyes. 

Crowley was relaxing elegantly on the ground, resting on an elbow, sipping on wine as though he had simply been waiting for him to arrive. 

“Drink?”

A smile made of sunlight. 

“Oh, _yes_.”

~

Aziraphale was feeling pleasingly light-headed from the wine. And brandy. And gin. And the late addition of the Talisker had certainly added to his sense of vague, ethereal bliss. He lay on his back, kneaded his shoulder-blades further into the pillow and considered the bookshelves.

“You know,” he hesitated, “never seen the shop like this before.” He frowned at the effort. “Bit- y’know.”

Crowley did not.

Aziraphale tried again. 

“The- the stuff. The books. All usside down.”

“Usside down books?”

“Yes! Yes, like- like- books all usside down. Op- up- up-side down. Looks diff’rent.” 

“Yeah, looks all diff’rent,” sighed Crowley in mutual drunken understanding. He closed his eyes and curled a hand round the edge of the pillow, breathing gradually slowing as he fell asleep.

Aziraphale lay feeling the warmth of the blanket, the alcohol, the new and unfamiliar patterns on the ceiling. He idly ran his thumb over the soft silk underside of his tie.

~

In his mind, he cautiously laid a hand on the door marked ‘Crowley’ and pushed it slightly ajar.


End file.
